


Last Look

by orphan_account



Series: See You Tomorrow [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 05:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11662431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When Clint's insecurities and anxieties kept getting in the way of enjoying a stable relationship with Captain America's best friend, he left without a word.





	Last Look

Bucky scrubbed the towel over his hair with both hands. It came away with the last few remnants of crusted blood he hadn't managed to wash out.

He stared for a moment at his shadowy reflection in the clouded mirror before wiping it back to normal. The bruises across his chest and arms were already healing; he looked as though he'd maybe taken a tumble out of a car rather than having rolled off a cliff. He’d stood under the rainfall showerhead for almost an hour; the fingertips of his right hand felt wrinkled and strange.

Stranger still was Clint Barton being on the other side of the door. Strange for both of them; Clint had showered first at Bucky’s indifferent insistence. He sat now on the edge of one of the two beds, too jittery still to fall asleep, fussing with his bow for the sake of having something to fuss with. His post-mission adrenaline had burned out, and in its place was an entirely different heart-pounding-hands-shaking kind of feeling.

He’d asked Fury not to pair him with Bucky again; submitted a formal request, even - in print, in person. _You’re the best sniper team we’ve got_ , Fury had calmly argued. _This is me asking you to think about it_.

When Clint went off the grid in lieu of _thinking about it_ , Natasha gave him three months to himself before she decided to find him. No new assignments after that. And no Bucky.

Until last Wednesday, when Clint had been called into a boardroom, handed a crisp manila folder, and seated directly across from Bucky Barnes, staring intently down at his own identical folder and looking far more devastatingly, unfairly beautiful than Clint had remembered: his hair, already growing long again post-buzzcut, tumbling sweetly over his brow; lush, shapely mouth tight at the edges in his customary frown; and his eyes, when he looked up at Clint and didn’t look away until Fury called for their attention, his eyes deep and wet and filled to the brim with his hot, honeyed soul. And Clint had loved him all over again and maybe loved him more than before and with that rush of love came every wall Clint had ever erected between them, moving soundlessly back into place and cutting the moment short. He’d turned his full attention to Fury. He’d left without saying a word to Bucky.

Tonight was a Tuesday evening. The mission had been rough and dirty: between Clint getting shot clean through the shoulder, Bucky’s parachute malfunctioning and sending him tumbling over the edge of a cliff, and the excess of dark, messy blood they'd both been absolutely covered in - the kind of excess that comes only from brutal hand-to-hand, the fight-for-your-life kind of excess - the evening had been one hell of a reunion tour. _Barton and Barnes: not your everyday sniper duo_.

Bucky’s internal injuries had healed in minutes, a medic at the rendezvous point had tended immediately to Clint’s bullet wound (and assured him that no major, physical therapy kind of tearing had occurred), and when no helicopter had arrived to take them home, the entire unit found themselves holed up in a three-star hotel outside of the city with an apology on SHIELD’s end and a promise to have everyone home in the morning. And, _Because I deserve this_ , Clint kept thinking dismally to himself, he and Bucky had ended up in the same room.

 _Fucking of course_ , Bucky thought. This particular shit show of a night wouldn't be complete without the two of them having to sleep side by side in the tiniest double room imaginable after three months of radio silence. He couldn’t pretend it hadn’t hurt him: Clint disappearing so suddenly, without any parting words or an explanation. And he couldn’t pretend there wasn’t still chemistry there, despite it all; real and unignorable. He knew Clint could feel it, too.

He slung the towel over his shoulders and pulled on a pair of boxer briefs. When he opened the door and went out of the bathroom, Clint was right where he’d been when Bucky had last looked at him.

It had been one thing during the mission, when all comm discussion had been pointed at the target, when watching each other was for the purpose of protecting a teammate. Being together now, without the distraction of a fight that had been more like a _brawl_ , all the things left unsaid came bobbing back up to the surface.

“Clint,” Bucky said, watching the other man’s bowed head. “Clint.”

Clint looked up at him, briefly. His attention went back to the bow. “What’s up?”

“Can we talk?”

“Good work tonight,” Clint responded deliberately, pushing past Bucky’s intentions and advertising that he was pushing past them. “Ready to head out in the morning?”

“Could you at least look me in the face when you’re trying to deflect?”

Clint smirked down at the bow.

“Why did you run?” Bucky asked, brutally straightforward, so fucking brutal. Bucky’s eyes, when Clint finally looked up and into them, were huge and soulful.

 _Come the fuck over here_ , Clint wanted to say. “We got close,” he replied very matter-of-factly.

“We did.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“And now?”

“Jeez,” Clint whispered. He blew out a breath. He put his eyes on his bow again. “Look, I’ve, uh... I’m not real good for anybody right now. There’s still some stuff that I’ve... you know, everything with Loki, it really... It messed me up pretty good.”

“So, what?” Bucky pressed when Clint didn’t continue. “Brainwashing got you down? Join the club. We've all got our shit.”

“I know it’s not like... it’s nothing like what you went through, not even close -”

“Not a competition.”

“I know that! I’m saying - I would think to myself, ‘He’s been through hell and he’s holding up so much better than me.’ I just felt like... I couldn’t get over what had happened to me, and you seemed to be adjusting. I didn’t want to drag you back down with my... my own shitty neurosis.” He dragged his gaze the full length of Bucky’s bare, bruised legs, his torso, and couldn’t bear the thought that this man’s body had ever been mistreated; if Clint could have it his way, not even a cold wind would ever again graze Bucky’s skin. He met Bucky’s eyes, feeling vulnerable, and took a deep breath before continuing, “But I’ve never stopped wanting you. I don’t know how. Pretty sure I’d give you anything. ”

“Got a funny way of showing it.”

Clint gave a smiling little huff, ducking his head and rubbing bashfully at the back of his neck. “Yeah, guess I do.”

Bucky took the towel from around his shoulders and tossed it onto the bathroom floor. He went across the room to the other bed and sat down across from Clint. Their knees knocked together.

“That was an asshole move,” Bucky said. “Leaving like that.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do.”

Bucky put his hand over Clint’s on the bow before delicately taking hold of the weapon and setting it to the side. Clint looked at him again and couldn’t look away.

“We were moving pretty fast,” Bucky said.

“We were,” Clint agreed.

“I’m willing to try it again, if you are.”

Clint felt as though he'd been electrocuted. All of his reasons for having left suddenly seemed so empty. Here was the man he loved: alive and in front of him. Forgiving him for pushing away. Offering him another chance.

“Could I, um... Could I show you now?” Clint said.

“Show me what, Barton?” Bucky said, and his voice was low and dark and the look of him was too much to handle, all thick, lowered lashes, his mouth a sideways smile.

Clint was on fire for him; he didn’t stutter when he said, “How much I want you.”

Bucky leaned forward, and the heat of his breath on Clint’s face, the human warmth of his right arm and the unyielding strength of his left under both of Clint’s hands: it was everything he'd been craving.

 


End file.
